Like clockwork
by hmmmmmmmmm
Summary: [.oneshot.] Take comfort in the simple pleasures that life brings. From dawn, ‘till dusk. Routine is sometimes the only thing standing between reality and our own fragility. Post Asuma’s death.


**Name: **Like Clockwork

**Summary:** .oneshot. Take comfort in the simple pleasures that life brings. From dawn, 'till dusk. Routine is sometimes the only thing standing between reality and our own fragility. Post Asuma's death.

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort

**Words: **1424

**Fandom: **Naruto

**Pairings: **Asuma x Kurenai, though mostly implied

**Discalimer:** I don't own.

_Naruto © Kishimoto-san_

_Fic © xXnekoxXkittykatxX ( Pily-chan )_

There were supposed to be two 3 Doors Down lyrics, but ff.n is being...ff.n-ish ( nothing new under the sun)

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**. d A w N . ( 0630 AM )**

The first moments of the day are always the hardest; the chilling sensation of solitude, the no longer present body that used to curl and twist and slyther and wrap with and around her own, no more poignant scent of tobacco filling up her lungs with every shaky breath she takes. The room feels emptier and colder with each morning she has to go through without that intoxicating stench ( " my_ natural odor _ " _he used to call it. She'd scrunch up her nose in disgust and proceed to smack him and make him throw the offensive cigarette outside, despite knowing that he's so d r e n c h e d in the damn thing that the house is going to smell like him for days _). Now, there's only the morning sickness and a sparkling shade of white to greet her at the beginning of the day.

**. m O r N i N g . ( 0800 AM )**

It's always quiet around the house these days. He's suffocating in all these extra non-sounds that fill up the corridors, the rooms, the garden, the .** everything** . that ever was in contact with him. Every morning his very, awfully, maddeningly silent mother will make him breakfast, lay a trembling kiss upon his forehead, whisper a _good luck_ ( _she doesn't really mean it and it's perfectly fine with him, because he doesn't really want to be lucky, not today, it's too early for him to recover_ ), then carry on with her chores as flawless as she always did without paying any attention to them and he admires her for that. He wishes he could be like that and do what is expected of him even though his entire being wants nothing more than to collapse on the floor and be the sobbing, pathetic, **un-heroic** lump he feels like.

This morning is no different from the others. The sun rose, as it was expected of it, Tsunade-sama orders people around, as is expected of her, and Konohamaru leaves for the rendezvous point, barely managing to keep himself together. It will take him a while to perfect the façade and even longer to finally let go, but that's perfectly fine with him. Because it's what everyone expects from him.

**.n O o N. ( 1200 PM )**

Lunch has always been his favorite part of the day, but, surprisingly enough, not because of the food. Lunch meant the middle of the day, that period of time when you either felt the irrepressible need to strangle the next person that came near you or you reeked of positive energy and smiled for everybody, including yourself. Lunch meant the peak. It was that which stood between the dawn and the dusk. The perfectly balanced moment of the day…And it had been so lonely around here for the last days, even with so many people surrounding him. Because many can understand what he's going through ( " _Death is a shinobi's lover, companion and enemy also, but mostly lover " he remembers reading somewhere and has this nagging feeling at the back of his head telling him that perhaps it wasn't read, but heard, seen, tasted, smelled and felt in the way he asked for a final smoke when their sight was blurring with pain, anger and love also, but mostly pain_ ). Because half of them don't look him in the eye, and the other half do, and what he sees in there is scary. Because most of them didn't know him like **they** did and the rest knew him too well to mourn his loss for ever and ever ( _I'll be your best friend _).

It's that loneliness that pushes him through the cheap and dirty curtain, into Ichiraku, despite the fact that he has always been proud of his exquisite taste in food, despite the fact that ramen has never appealed to him. It's the middle of the day, a moment of perfect equilibrium, and he feels the irrepressible need to find company reeking of positive energy.

**. a F t E r N o O n . ( 1700 PM )**

Things have been going good for the shop lately…she can't even remember the last time it was so full of customers. Then again, she'd never had a good memory to start with. Maybe she was just being forgetful ( _or trying to push the memory away because it hurts to think about it, to think about __**them**__, about how stupid and so incredibly selfish they've been, because she's jealous and wishes to be able to do the same when it's time even though she's weak, even though she knows she can't, not right now, so the only thing left to do is lock the memory away _). And lonely. She can't remember the last time she'd felt like this either ( _liar liar_ ) and it's so strange to feel like this when the place's packed with people.

She taps her foot impatiently and makes sure to smile politely at one of the many faces inside, a grimace she's not used to ( _not yet, just like she's not adapted to the pain, but tries to face it anyway_ ), then scans the crowd again, searching for the familiar hair and figure and person, the one who's been coming here for past few weeks. They don't talk as much as they used to, it's mostly sighs and avoiding looks now, but his constant presence is reassuring. It's something to hold on to at night, when she can stop being polite to people who don't deserve it, when the occasional nightmare rips through the fabric of her fragile defenses. For the sake of her sanity ( _and his own_ ), he'll come and make sure she got enough of _the_ scent to keep her going.

**. d U s K . ( 1930 PM )**

Routine brings comfort, he's been once told and never before did those words seem so meaningful like in this moment, when he's casually walking down the street to her house with a cigarette ( _cancer sticks, death in a small package carelessly exposed in shop windows_ ) in his mouth and the smoke in his lungs. He likes the inner rhythm of his own actions, finds security in knowing that there is a schedule to be followed, that life is stable at the moment. It's safe in the arms of regularity and he doesn't feel quite ready to leave his shelter.

The familiar figure standing in the doorway, the same smile she greets him with, the way she gracefully accepts the gift ( _forget-me-not, forsake-me-not, it's what __**he**__ brought her_ )…Everything is set and well established, predetermined steps for a dance neither would have liked to share. The way they both cowardly hide their too-recent-to-heal wounds under reminiscence and future plans, excessive in everything they do because compensation is needed ( _Their dance partner has left an empty spot on the dance floor__and he promised to__fill it up_ ). He goes inside, making sure to bring the cigarette as well. She takes the opportunity and yells at him about the baby inhaling the toxins through her, so he throws it out now. She huffs and hurries to get him something to drink so he can pretend that no tears had accidentally fallen down. It's safe in here, and he'll never be ready to leave it all behind. There's time enough to heal.

**. n I g H t . ( 2200 PM )**

There are nights she simply can't fall asleep, no matter how tired her body is or how much she wishes to do so. Her mind is too strong willed, hardened by the shinobi life she's led. It will not let her succumb to the illusions brought on moon light beams and barely-there scents of wild flowers. Sometimes, she has to stare at the ceiling for oh, so long, and the dreams won't come so she night-dreams. There are nights when this is enough. There are nights when it's not and at some point she falls prey to the velvet mirage. It's the mornings after this she fells the emptiest, when she wakes up to the chilling sensation of solitude, the no longer present body that used to curl and twist and slyther and wrap with and around her own, no more poignant scent of tobacco filling up her lungs...

* * *

.. Light shines through ..

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**a/n** Ugh…I haven't written in so long I've almost forgotten how to do it. But now, my inspiration is back. And guess what? It's brought the killer plot bunnies we all know and fear. This one was a revengeful one…hated me since I found out about his death and refused to write it… 

Critique will be greatly appreciated. _Reeeeally_ appreciated. ( though I don't discourage praising –bricked- ) Honestly. Anything varying from typos to excessive wangsting...If you feel that it's an issue, then by all means, do tell me.

Oh...and I'm sorry if this is _too_ confusing. I blame it all on the slave-making!plot bunny.


End file.
